Why I'm not drinking, for now

I stopped drinking five weeks ago on a Sunday night. I slipped once, twelve days later.

I was in New Mexico at the Taos Summer Writers' Conference, taking part in a week-long master novel class. There were six of us in the class, four men and two women, me included, plus the leader. It wasn’t in the class that I slipped. 

The conference started with a big dinner on a Sunday night, a week after my supposed last drink. There were hundreds of us, a wedding reception-sized crowd.  We sat at assigned tables according to workshop. Everyone at my table, except for me and one of the guys, had brought spouses. I really could have used a drink. Though I’ve attended hundreds of events on my own, though I’ve run many marathons without any company except for the hard breathing of strangers all around me, I still sometimes feel awkward when I go to social gatherings alone.  Especially when practically everyone else at the table has a partner, and when everyone else is drinking. One glass of wine is all I need.  My tongue loosens, my boundaries, thick-walled and spike-topped, crumble. 

But that night I didn’t have a drink.

Over the next four nights I didn’t drink either. There were many awkward moments when a cheap glass of cabernet would have greased the works and given me respite.  But I abstained.

Every night there were readings from the workshop leaders, who are all published authors or poets. The readings were given in a spacious conference room where scores of chairs were set up in rows. You could sneak in and sit where you wanted. Some people sat with friends, but many people, me included, sat alone. For the last night of readings, which happened to be the last night of the conference, we all met again in the big room and sat at our assigned tables. There were appetizers and a full cash bar. There were also margaritas, which were free.

This night was the last night all seven of us, we six participants and our fearless leader John Dufresne, would ever likely be together. The next morning I was leaving early. I had to be in Santa Fe for a 9 a.m.  poetry workshop. Most of the others were departing before breakfast for the Albuquerque airport, which is three hours south. One was driving north into the mountains that very evening, to his home in Angel Fire an hour away.

As I sat listening to the readings, I couldn’t help but reflect on the remarkable days that were ending. I was leaving with many, many solid ideas on how to improve my work. I felt affirmed and respected. I’d  made new friends with whom I now shared a strong bond. I was proud of the steps I’d taken to help myself. When I sent out my three hundred fifteen pages to everyone back in June, I was sending my baby, my hopes,my dreams, to perfect strangers. I’d risked everything and as a result I’d grown. I was in a new place.  

And as I thought about what that new place would bring, a sadness entered me that had nothing to do with leaving behind these kind good people and this magical place. The sadness had to do with what I was going home to. 

The reason I stopped drinking on Sunday July 8, is because the next day, Monday, July 9, my mother started chemotherapy. She loves her red wine. She and my dad have been drinking a half bottle or more a night for years now. Her oncologist had told her months back that once she started chemo she would have to cut out all alcohol. He told her that if she drinks, two things will happen: 1. She will end up in the intensive care unit. 2. He will refuse to continue treating her.  I know this is true because I was at that appointment. I heard her ask him, again and again, if she could drink. She wheedled. She begged. She told the truth: “Wine is the only thing getting me through this.”

Each time, his answer was a gentle shake of the head, a calm no, until finally he’d had enough and uttered those last definitive statements about intensive care and ending her treatment. That shut her up. 

We drank a lot of red wine the night before her treatment began. We toasted my mother multiple times. We raised our glass to the glorious grape. We blessed then cursed Dr. Bathini, then blessed him again. And that night we all gave up alcohol, a symbolic gesture to let her know we were in her corner. We were there for her. My mother said that was a silly thing for us to do. “Why should you suffer?” she said.

“Why not?” We said. 

We all figured that it’s the least that we could do. And personally, it’s not that big a deal for me. I’m not much of a drinker anyhow. Honestly, if I’d really wanted to feel suffering, I’d have given up chocolate. 

This is week five of my mother’s sixteen-week course of treatment.  In eleven weeks, if all goes well, my mother can have one glass of wine. That’s what the doctor said.  My mother is counting the hours.  

I had a free margarita – honesty here – TWO free margaritas, that last night in Taos, because when the sadness came on I didn’t want to face it. I needed a little escape, a break. I needed a good taste to hold on to, a memory to help me face the storms ahead.  I am not as strong as my mother. 

Oh how I miss you dear friend.

My mother started smoking fifty-nine years ago, when she was just sixteen. Dozens of times she has tried to quit. She’s gone cold turkey, she’s tried the patch. Once, my mother the cynic even tried a hypnotist. Two years ago, she watched her best friend succumb to cancer, and still she couldn’t give up that heinous addiction, though she found the strength somehow then to cut back to just seven cigarettes a day. She hated herself so much for even smoking that much.

The day she got her cancer diagnosis – it’s not one cancer but in fact TWO unrelated cancers -- she threw out all her butts.  Several months have passed in a blur of CT scans and x-rays. She’s been poked and prodded like a piece of meat. She’s undergone a month of radiation and now is coping with the cumulative effects of chemo building up in her system. She does all this knowing that it’s likely she will not be cured. We all know this. Dr. Bathini has been upfront from the start. 

We went out to eat the other night, just before the crazy pacemaker weekend. It was an Italian place my parents frequent. They used to love to savor a good glass of wine there before they ordered their meal. But now they order just a few minutes after they sit. We drink water with lemon. We munch on bread that we’ve dipped in olive oil. We wait. My mother says, “Jesus. Without the cigarettes and alcohol life isn’t worth living.”  Then she laughs. It’s a bitter laugh. But it’s a laugh and that counts for something. We laugh too. 

Take that!